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MY RECOLLECTIONS
[Illustration: The Master, Jules Massenet]
MY RECOLLECTIONS
BY
JULES MASSENET
(1842-1912)
THE AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION DONE AT THE
MASTER'S EXPRESS DESIRE
BY HIS FRIEND
H. VILLIERS BARNETT
Authorized Translator of
H. S. H. the Prince of Monaco's Autobiography:
_La Carriere d'un Navigateur_
[Illustration]
BOSTON
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1919,
By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
TO
LUCY ARBELL
CONSUMMATE DRAMATIC ARTIST
AND
GREATEST CONTRALTO SINGER
OF OUR TIME
IN AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION
I DEDICATE
THIS ENGLISH VERSION
OF HER
BELOVED MASTER'S BOOK
"_Chere amie, gardez aussi sa religion, et qu'elle vous conduise, ferme
et courageuse, au milieu des cahots de la vie, jusq'au paradis des
arts._"
FOREWORD
I have been often asked whether I put together the recollections of my
life from notes jotted down from day to day. To tell the truth I did,
and this is how I began the habit of doing so regularly.
My mother--a model wife and mother, who taught me the difference between
right and wrong--said to me on my tenth birthday:
"Here is a diary." (It was one of those long-shaped diaries which one
found in those days at the _little_ Bon Marche, not the immense
enterprise we know now.) "And," she added, "every night before you go to
bed, you must write down on the pages of this memento what you have
seen, said, or done during the day. If you have said or done anything
which you realize is wrong, you must confess it in writing in these
pages. Perhaps it will make you hesitate to do wrong during the day."
How characteristic of an unusual woman, a woman of upright mind and
honest heart this idea was! By placing the matter of conscience among
the first of her son's duties, she made Conscience the very basis of her
methods of teaching.
Once when I was alone, in search of some distraction I amused myself by
foraging in the cupboards where I found some squares of chocolate. I
broke off a square and munched it. I have said somewhere that I am
greedy. I don't deny it. Here's another proof.
When evening came and I had to write the account of my day, I admit that
I hesitated a moment about mentioning that delicious square of
chocolate. But my conscience put to the test in this way conquered, and
I bravely recorded my dereliction in the diary.
The thought that my mother would read about my misdeed made me rather
shamefaced. She came in at that very moment and saw my confusion; but
directly she knew the cause she clasped me in her arms and said:
"You have acted like an honest man and I forgive you. All the same that
is no reason why you should ever again eat chocolate on the sly!"
Later on, when I munched other and better chocolate, I always obtained
permission.
Thus it came about that from day to day I have always made notes of my
recollections be they good or bad, gay or sad, happy or not, and kept
them so that I might have them constantly in mind.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
FOREWORD vii
I MY ADMISSION TO THE CONSERVATOIRE 1
II YOUTHFUL YEARS 11
III THE GRAND PRIX DE ROME 20
IV THE VILLA MEDICI 29
V THE VILLA MEDICI (CONTINUED) 37
VI THE VILLA MEDICI (CONTINUED) 43
VII MY RETURN TO PARIS 53
VIII MY DEBUT AT THE THEATER 63
IX THE DAYS AFTER THE WAR 74
X JOY AND SORROW 82
XI MY DEBUT AT THE OPERA 93
XII THE THEATERS IN ITALY 103
XIII THE CONSERVATOIRE AND THE INSTITUTE 114
XIV A FIRST PERFORMANCE AT BRUSSELS 123
XV THE ABBE PREVOST AT THE OPERA-COMIQUE 136
XVI FIVE COLLABORATORS 148
XVII A JOURNEY TO GERMANY 161
XVIII A STAR 173
XIX A NEW LIFE 186
XX MILAN--LONDON--BAYREUTH 199
XXI A VISIT TO VERDI--FAREWELL TO AMBROISE THOMAS 208
XXII WORK! ALWAYS WORK! 217
XXIII IN THE MIDST OF THE MIDDLE AGES 231
XXIV FROM _Cherubin_ TO _Therese_ 242
XXV SPEAKING OF 1793 254
XXVI FROM _Ariane_ TO _Don Quichotte_ 267
XXVII A SOIREE 278
XXVIII DEAR EMOTIONS 288
XXIX THOUGHTS AFTER DEATH 302
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Master, Jules Massenet _Frontispiece_
sPAGE
Massenet at Egreville 44
One of the last portraits of Massenet 68
Mme. Pauline Viardot 84
Titta Ruffo, Caruso and Chaliapine 110
The Forum from the First Act of _Roma_ (_See page 300_) 154
Posthumia (_Roma_) (_See page 297_) 170
Lucy Arbell 212
Persephone in _Ariane_ 244
Queen Amahelly (_Bacchus_) 268
Dulcinee (_Don Quichotte_) 282
Facsimile of Massenet's Reply to an Invitation to Visit America 296
MY RECOLLECTIONS
CHAPTER I
MY ADMISSION TO THE CONSERVATOIRE
Were I to live a thousand years--which is hardly likely--I should never
forget that fateful day, February 24, 1848, when I was just six years
old. Not so much because it coincided with the fall of the Monarchy of
July, as that it marked the first steps of my musical career--a career
which, even yet, I am not sure was my real destiny, so great is my love
for the exact sciences!
At that time I lived with my parents in the Rue de Beaune in an
apartment overlooking the great gardens. The day promised to be fine,
but it was very cold.
We were at luncheon when the waitress rushed into the room like a
maniac. "_Aux armes, citoyens!_" she yelled, throwing rather than
placing the plates on the table.
I was too young to understand what was going on in the streets. All I
can remember is that riots broke out and that the Revolution smashed
the throne of the most debonair of kings. The feelings which stirred my
father were entirely different from those which disturbed my mother's
already distracted soul. My father had been an officer under Napoleon
Bonaparte and a friend of Marshal Soult, Duke of Dalmatia. He was all
for the Emperor, and the atmosphere of battles suited his temperament.
My mother, on the other hand, had experienced the sorrows of the first
great revolution, which dragged Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette from
their throne, and thrilled with worship for the Bourbons.
The memory of that exciting meal remained the more deeply fixed in my
mind because on the morning of that historic day, by the light of tallow
candles (wax candles were only for the rich) my mother for the first
time placed my fingers on the piano.
In order best to introduce me to the knowledge of this instrument, my
mother--she was my music teacher--stretched along the keyboard a strip
of paper upon which she wrote the notes corresponding to each of the
black and white keys, with their position on the five lines. It was most
ingenious; no mistake was possible.
My progress on the piano was so pronounced that three years later, in
October, 1851, my parents thought I ought to apply at the Conservatoire
for the entrance examination to the piano classes.
One morning that month we went to the Rue de Faubourg-Poissonniere. The
Conservatoire National de Musique was there then, and it remained there
until it was moved to the Rue de Madrid. The large room we entered--like
all the rest in the place at that time--had walls painted a bluish gray,
spotted with black. A few old benches were the only furniture in this
anteroom.
M. Ferriere, a harsh, severe looking man--he was one of the upper
employees--came out to call the candidates by flinging their names into
the crowd of relatives and friends that accompanied them. It was like
summoning the condemned to execution. Then he gave each candidate the
number of his turn before the jury which had already assembled in the
rooms where the sessions were held.
This room was intended for examinations and was a sort of small theater
with a row of boxes and a circular gallery in the Consulate style. I
confess that I have never entered that room without feeling emotion. I
have always fancied that I saw, seated opposite in a first-tier box, as
in a black hole, Bonaparte, the First Consul, and Josephine, the sweet
companion of his early years. He with his forceful, handsome face; she
with her kind and gentle glances, for both used to come to such
occasions. By her visits to this sanctuary dedicated to Art and by
bringing him, so preoccupied with many cares, good and noble Josephine
seemed to wish to soften his thoughts and to make them less stern by
contact with the youth who some day perforce would not escape the
horrors of war.
From the time of Sarette, the first director, until recently, all the
examinations for classes in the institution, both tragedy and comedy,
were held in this same small hall, but it should not be confused with
the hall so well known as the Salle de la Societe des Concerts du
Conservatoire.
The organ class was also held there several times a week for at the
back, hidden behind a large curtain, was a great organ with two
keyboards. Beside that old, worn, squeaky instrument was the fateful
door through which the pupils came on to the platform that formed the
small stage. Again, this same small hall, for many a year, was the
judgment seat for the award of prizes for musical composition known as
the _Prix de Rome_.
But to return to the morning of October 9, 1851. When all the youngsters
had been informed of the order in which we must take our examinations,
we went into an adjoining room which led into the hall through the
"fateful" door, and which was only a sort of dusty, disordered garret.
The jury whose verdict we had to face was composed of Halevy, Carafa,
Ambroise Thomas, several professors of the school, and the director, who
was also the president of the Conservatoire, Monsieur Auber. We rarely
said just Auber when we spoke of this French master, the most eminent
and prolific of all who made the opera and opera-comique of that time
famous.
At this time Monsieur Auber was sixty-five. He was universally respected
and everyone at the Conservatoire adored him. I shall always remember
his pleasing, unusually bright black eyes, which remained the same until
his death in May, 1871.
May, 1871! We were then in open insurrection, almost in the last throes
of the Commune ... and Monsieur Auber, still faithful to his beloved
boulevard near the Passage de l'Opera--his favorite walk--met a friend
also in despair over the terrible days we were passing through, and said
to him, in an accent of utter weariness,
"Ah! I have lived too long!" Then he added, with a slight smile, "One
should never abuse anything."
In 1851--the date when I became acquainted with Monsieur Auber--he had
already lived a long time in his old mansion in the Rue St. George,
where I remember having been received soon after seven in the morning,
the master's work was finished by that time, the hour at which he gave
himself to the calls he welcomed so simply.
Then he went to the Conservatoire in a tilbury which he ordinarily drove
himself. At sight of him one was instantly reminded of the opera _La
Muette de Portici_, which had exceptional good luck, and which was the
most lasting success before _Robert le Diable_ made its appearance at
the Opera. To speak of _La Muette de Portici_ is to be vividly reminded
of the magical effect which the duet in the second act, _Amour sacre de
la patrie_, produced on the patriots in the audience when it was
produced at the Theatre de la Monnaie at Brussels. In very truth it gave
the signal for the revolution which broke out in Belgium in 1830 and
which brought about the independence of our neighbors on the north. The
whole audience was wild with excitement, and sang the heroic strain with
the artists, repeating it again and again without stopping. What master
can boast of a success like that in his own career?
* * * * *
When my name was called, all of a tremble, I made my appearance on the
stage. I was only nine years old and I had to play the finale of
Beethoven's Sonata, Opus 29. What ambition!
They stopped me in the usual way after I had played two or three pages.
I was utterly embarrassed as I heard Monsieur Auber's voice calling me
before the jury. To get down from the stage, I had to descend two or
three steps. I paid no attention to them and would have gone head first
if Monsieur Auber had not kindly called out, "Take care, my little man."
Then he immediately asked me where I had studied so well. After replying
with some pride that my mother had been my only teacher, I went out,
absolutely bewildered, almost at a run, but entirely happy. _He_ had
spoken to me!
Next morning my mother received the official notice. I was a pupil at
the Conservatoire.
At this time there were two teachers of the piano at the great
school--Mamontel and Laurent. There were no preparatory classes. I was
assigned to Laurent's class, and I remained there two years while I
continued my classical studies at college. At the same time I took
_sol-fa_ lessons from M. Savard who was excellent.
Professor Laurent had been _Premier Prix de piano_ under Louis XVIII.
Then he was a cavalry officer, but left the army to become a professor
in the Royal Conservatoire of Music. He was goodness itself, realizing
the ideal of that quality in the fullest sense of the word. He placed
entire confidence in me.
M. Savard was an extraordinarily erudite man. He was the father of one
of my pupils, a Grand Prix de Rome, now the director of the
Conservatoire at Lyons. (What a number of my old pupils are or have been
directors of conservatoires!) His heart was as large as his learning was
extensive. It is pleasant to recall that when I wanted to work at
counterpoint, before I entered the class in fugue and composition--Ambroise
Thomas was the professor--M. Savard was quite willing to give me
lessons. I went to his house to take them, and every evening I went down
from Montmartre where I lived to Number 13, Rue de la Vielle-Estrpade,
behind the Pantheon.
What wonderful lessons I had from that simple, learned man! How
courageous I was as I walked the long way I had to go to his house from
which I returned each evening about ten o'clock full of the wise and
learned advice he had given me!
As I said, I made the trip on foot. I did not even ride on the top of an
omnibus in order to set aside sou by sou the price I would have to pay
for my lessons. I had to follow this system; the shade of Descartes
would have congratulated me.
But note the delicacy of that charitable-hearted man. When the day came
for him to take what I owed him, M. Savard told me that he had some work
for me--the transcription for a full orchestra of the military band
accompaniment to Adolphe Adam's mass, and he added that the work would
net me three hundred francs!!...
His purpose was obvious, but I did not see it. It was not till long
afterwards that I understood that M. Savard had thought of this way of
not asking me for money--by making me think that the three hundred
francs represented the fee for his lessons; that, to use a fashionable
phrase, they "compensated" him.
After all the years which have gone since he was no more, my heart still
says to that master, to that charming, admirable soul, "Thank you!"